Of Smug Snake Smirks and Unfair Advantages
by Ekanite
Summary: Can be seen as a sequel to The Strange Charms of Sea Glass. Harry and Malfoy attend the Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw match together, and in the midst of friendly snark, reveal a little more than they should.


Harry caught a flash of white-blond hair and misplaced house colors in his peripheral vision. The corners of his mouth tried valiantly to twitch into a grin, but he pressed his lips together tightly and kept his eyes locked on the Quidditch game.

Malfoy stuck out like a pointy little sore thumb in the curve of yellow and black. Harry heard small rustlings and whispers in the otherwise silent crowd, and knew that his presence had not gone unnoticed. But he maintained a remarkable composure as always, gloved hands folded neatly behind his back and grey eyes keen on the pitch.

As a matter of fact, Harry was attracting quite a few stares, too, and he wasn't holding up to them nearly as well as he should be. For the man who killed Voldemort, he could really be a bit of a wallflower. Which was a kinder word than most—ahem, Malfoy—would use, but accurate, nonetheless.

He hadn't wanted to bring any attention on himself for his change of place. He had sat here in the middle of the Hufflepuff section merely because he was supporting them today, and that he was frankly, quite sick of the simple adoration of most of his house.

He had also really wanted to give Hermione and Ron some alone time. Their fellow Gryffindors simply could not lay off the teasing in the common room, and of course Hermione was too studious to leave her work, even for Ron. So in what little time they had gotten to spend together, Harry had felt like the creaky old third wheel he'd always feared he'd become.

I need a girlfriend, he thought glumly. His mind filled with images of Ginny's soft pink lips and dancing red hair for a second before he remembered that she wasn't his anymore. That he'd let her go, all because of his own…he didn't know what to call it. Malfoy here would probably just call him a bloody Gryffindor and be done with it. Now he had to smile.

"What're you grinning about now, Potter?" Malfoy was speaking up.

"Nothing, Malfoy," Harry answered absentmindedly.

Ironic that he was too busy thinking about him to look at him. His smile only widened another achy inch when he imagined Malfoy's face if Harry said that he was happy because of him. He'd likely try to punch the grin right off his face. Well, actually, he wasn't so sure about that now. They had built up a truce after the war, an unsteady tottering little thing that—dare Harry even think it? Would he jinx it?—was rapidly turning into a strange and strangely close friendship.

"Well, you shouldn't be," Malfoy informed him smugly. Harry turned to see him rocking on his heels, looking self-satisfied. "Ravenclaw is up twenty, and your badgers are floundering in the mud, as always."

Several heads whipped around to fix Malfoy with glares. Or at least, as much of a glare as a Hufflepuff could manage. He was unperturbed, and Harry had to admire that and detest it in equal parts. It was becoming an all too familiar feeling with Malfoy. Harry did his best to ignore them, too, shooting Malfoy his own version of the smug snake smirk.

"How so, Malfoy?" He took a sidelong glance at the field without fully removing his eyes from his face. The Hufflepuffs seemed to be getting through to Madam Hooch, as she was giving her usual tight little shake of the head at the Ravenclaw Captain and reaching for her whistle. "Looks like your eagles are being given a little tap on the talon. Told you it was a foul."

"Actually, Potter, you didn't. But I find it hard to believe you were getting lost in your thoughts."

Harry shot him a quizzical look, knowing a jibe was coming but not knowing what it was or how to apprehend it. As usual. He would catch up eventually, he was sure.

Malfoy smirked, and Harry noted that the Slytherins were upping the Gryffindors on that front, at least. Wasn't much of a victory, though. "Well, your head is so large and yet so very empty. A vast, barren wasteland. Shame, really, that I own such a large share of nothing."

Harry wasn't sure what to make of that. Was Malfoy implying that Harry spent much of his time thinking about him? Surely the opposite was true. Malfoy had been obsessed with Harry through fifth year, and Harry had only returned the favor in sixth. Besides, that was for a good reason, wasn't it?

"Anyway, it's like a repeat of that first year detention all over again. You and forests don't have a great relationship, do you?"

Again, Harry could make neither head nor tail of this. He did notice, however, that Malfoy seemed to be staring quite intently at Harry's eyes the whole while.

Harry once again felt the weight of their history pressing between them like a kind of plaster wall. He was chipping away at it, but Malfoy only seemed to want to build it up again. "As I seem to recall, Malfoy, you were the one who got lost. And the one who screamed like a girl when—"

A pink flush appeared high on Malfoy's cheeks. "Yes. Well. People change," he muttered after interrupting him with a cough. "And of course he automatically turned this back around on Harry, too. "You, however, have maintained a sort of regularity, haven't you, Potter? Impolite enough to turn down a handshake in first year. Seven years later, you've been having a conversation with the same poor man for over ten minutes, and you haven't even invited him to sit down," he sniffed.

"Ten minutes? You enjoy exaggeration, don't you, Malfoy?" Harry groaned.

He shifted over on the bleachers. However, Malfoy merely flicked his eyes disparagingly up and around. He made no move to sit.

"It is an art form of sorts, yes. I prefer the term 'embellishment.' Or perhaps 'hyperbole.' Please do look into expanding your vocabulary, Potter."

"I don't exactly have a choice. I need a bloody dictionary to decipher every other word out of your mouth. Worse than Hermione. You'd get along great, you know."

Malfoy gave a little shudder. "Now you've gone too far, Potter. Never compare me to that Mu—"

Harry raised an eyebrow, daring him to mess this up.

He tried again. "That Mu—"

His eyebrow only arched farther.

"Damn. Granger, alright?" He spat out.

Harry gave a pleased little nod.

"We are nothing alike!" Malfoy added, getting to the point with vehemence.

"If you insist, Malfoy. Now quit standing on ceremony," he said with a kind of weary smile. Harry slid another foot over and made a sweeping gesture at the vacated space. "Sit your haughty arse down already."

Malfoy smirked again, the kind where his eyes danced, wicked steel, and Harry just knew there would be trouble. With a pleasant little jolt, he realized he was looking forward to it. Malfoy leaned forward with a sinful waggle of his slim hips, clad positively provocatively in a pair of the tailored Muggle trousers he had taken to wearing on weekends.

Not that Harry had taken particular notice of it. Just an objective observation. He had eyes, after all. And so did Malfoy. Rather nice ones. Alright, better bring that train of thought to a screeching halt right away.

Malfoy, still swiveling his hips, cooed, "Don't you mean my hottie arse, Potter?"

Harry snorted and shook his head. "Oh, I do forget my manners. Place your beautiful backside on this expanse of throne, Your Highness, Ice Prince of Slytherin. The very seat is honored by your royal derriere."

Most of the Hufflepuffs had abandoned all pretense of watching the match, instead turning their full attentions on Harry and Malfoy. Harry knew that they had always been seen as good entertainment value back when they were at each other's throats, and their bizarre new friendship was apparently no less loved by the public. He caught a few scandalized scowls, several people (girls, mostly, although oddly Zacharias Smith was among them) in throes of delight, and the rest caught somewhere in between amusement and bemusement.

He turned back in Malfoy to see him give a nod and his peculiar smile and drop, not ungracefully, right next to Harry. He was suddenly aware of the warm, slender length of the thigh pressed against his, and of the pleasance of the peculiarity, warming him in a whole different way. Malfoy wasn't a half-bad friend, after all. At least when it was cold out.

"Haven't heard that one before, but thank you for addressing me properly, Potter," said Malfoy. "And thank you for attracting us such a wonderful audience. You people are lovely, you really are," he called back to them, voice oozing sarcasm.

Harry grinned. "Shall I?" He slipped his wand out of his pocket and murmured a quick "Muffliato."

"Useful," Malfoy conceded quietly.

"Isn't it?" Harry said, smug. "Talk as loud as you like. All they'll hear is buzzing."

"Quite rude of you."

Harry's eyes widened. "Since when have you ever cared about that?"

"A Malfoy is nothing if not polite," he huffed, sounding indignant.

"So…you're nothing, then," Harry teased.

"I suppose you think you're being very Slytherin, don't you," snapped Malfoy.

Harry winced. Well, he had, until a second ago. He tensed, automatically preparing himself for conflict. Malfoys were nothing if not unpredictable.

"Relax, Potter," he drawled. He cut his long syllables off as he stood abruptly. Continued capriciousness, Harry supposed. "Let's make you a real Slytherin, shall we?"

Harry theorized briefly on the bizarre rituals he might be put through before he realized that Malfoy was jerking his head towards the Slytherin section of the stands. Harry was going to get it back in the Gryffindor common room for "fraternizing with the enemy" (oh yes, that quote of Ron's lived in infamy still) but for now could care less. Yet another negative influence of Malfoy. It was a good thing he had waited seven years to extend his own hand in truce, or he might have been in a very strange place (his mind refused to call it bad when his mouth still ached from smiling) indeed.

He stared at his thin back and the cockiness in its very arch, finding both reassurance and irritation in it. Trotting close on his heels, he noted how very awkward his stumbling steps were compared to Malfoy's fluid strides. When he tried to match them, he only felt self-conscious and like an even bigger fool. He just kept up in his own way.

Malfoy's easy manner back in the Hufflepuff section was nothing compared to how he sat in Slytherin. Perhaps there was some truth in calling him a prince, after all, because he lorded himself over the seat, knees angled and pressed into the back of the next row, elbows claiming triangles of territory of their own, white-blond head tossed back (in what happened to be Blaise Zabini's lap).

"Decided to join us again, Draco?" Daphne Greengrass asked, voice sweet and deadly, like poisoned honey.

It was a strange trait of Slytherin females (and a few males, admittedly) that Harry was only just now discovering, having been a bit smarter and less masochistic in the past. They had the ability to sound seductive and cruel, cold and hot all at once. It was surprising that their vocal chords didn't just snap in protest.

"Not by any great desire of your company. Potter here just insists on chattering away to me, and I can't keep my mouth shut in the face of his inanity, can I?" Malfoy said matter-of-factly.

"You lot could care less about the Quidditch. By the way, I resent that, and I have previously made my views clear." He made a quick skimming hand motion, fingers clacking together. "So instead of enjoying your cozy knitting times—yes, Blaise, I'm looking at you—"

He wasn't, actually, but Harry was, and so he caught a gratifying glimpse of silver needles before they were stowed away.

"You can be subjected to the same auditory agony."

Harry would probably be more insulted if he knew exactly what Malfoy was talking about. But he wasn't quite sure, so he just shrugged and smiled his sheepish smile. This seemed to satisfy the Slytherins, or at least amuse them sufficiently, since Malfoy's lot were never quite content. He only wished Malfoy would make the same efforts with Harry's friends. He did really think he would hit it off with Hermione. But he was happy enough now, just listening to Malfoy ramble on. Whether Harry liked to admit it or not, the Malfoy's essence was especially distilled around his house-mates.

Harry barely registered that this was one of the dullest games that he had ever watched. He was happily preoccupied. Maybe he should have accepted that handshake after all. But then would he have been bored of him by now?

No, probably not, he thought through a haze of laughter as Malfoy imitated Slughorn sucking up to McGonagall yet again (it was even funnier in hindsight, especially when recounted by Malfoy—he may have been a lot of things, but one thing he wasn't was a bad storyteller).

Harry stared out at the goals, wishing he had something witty to say. He had quite the wit at times, but he was much better at being saccharine than astringent nowadays. He could share an anecdote, he supposed. That usually worked like a charm.

"Hey, Malfoy."

"Hmm?" He straightened himself a bit, sleepy eyes brightening a shade. Sometimes when his grey eyes lit up like that, it reminded Harry of a fire being set under a pewter cauldron.

"When Oliver showed those Quidditch goal posts to me the first time, you know what they reminded me of?"

Instead of feeding him lines, Malfoy completely missed the point. "What? Wood showed you Quidditch for the first time?"

"Erm. Yes?" Harry said. His brow furrowed. "I mean, I grew up with Muggles…"

There was an abrupt flash of anger in his eyes. "You lucky bastard."

Harry bristled. "The Dursleys were horrible, I don't know what—"

"Idiot. I'm not talking about your Dursleys, whoever or whatever they might be," Malfoy said, cold again. He was starting to seem more and more like some hopped-up Ice Prince again. "That day in first year? First time you flew?"

"First time I knew people could fly," Harry said honestly.

Somehow this made him more frustrated. Harry thought he shouldn't have known why, but couldn't put a finger on it. "So sheer stupid luck was all that made you Hogwarts's youngest Seeker in a century?"

Harry frowned. "I s'pose. I dunno. Doesn't it just feel natural to you, to be up in the air? I don't know. I feel more...I just feel more when I'm up in the air. It's fun, you know."

"So this is all just a game to you?"

Bewildered and a little sick of being accused of things that seemed like no crimes at all, Harry gave a defiant nod. Malfoy was on his feet, and Harry clambered up onto the level part of the bleachers with him. "Quidditch is a game, isn't it?"

"You, Potter! Life's too good to you. Have you never heard of reaping the fruits of your labor? You seem to be only profiting from others'!"

Harry's eyes narrowed. "So what're you saying, Malfoy?"

"That apparently you were born perfect, you can do no wrong, you're bollocks at everything that doesn't matter and you kick arse at everything that does."

"So you're…complimenting me," Harry said slowly.

His own temper must have dimmed a lot, perhaps since he was free from Voldemort's influence and was not acting on cold fury anymore, only his own hot rage. Interesting thing to think about, but now was not the time.

Now was the time to wonder whether he should back up a step. Malfoy's wool -covered chest was so close to Harry that his shirt jumped with static. He would have estimated the distance between their faces at four inches at most. Most alarming was Malfoy's face. Even lighter than usual, much too pale, with high smears of sick pink on his aristocratic cheekbones and a very peculiar sheen to his eyes.

"No, Potter," he hissed from between clenched teeth. "I'm reminding myself why I hate you." He worked a hand between their bodies to jab him in the sternum with each word. "I. Hate. You. Harry. Bloody. Potter."

"Hate you too, Malfoy," Harry snapped automatically. He instantly regretted it.

Malfoy reeled back, looking like he was going to take a swing at Harry. Instead, he wheeled around to face the exit, one foot kicking up.

"Enough with the histrionics, dear," Daphne sighed. She reached out to touch his arm, but he slapped her hand away immediately.

He made like he was about to leave, but it was another feint. He turned on Harry again and prodded him even harder this time, right on the bridge of his spectacles. The metal pressed into the soft skin of Harry's nose, making him wince and nearly tear up.

Harry felt like he had been turned into a statue, and he wouldn't put it past Malfoy to pull a Medusa with that odd glare of his.

He was finally being treated to one of Malfoy's infamous tantrums. Or at least he hoped that's what it was, and not anything more serious.

Then Malfoy ripped the glasses right from his face. "There! See how you like it. Blind as a bat. Batty, you are, Potter." He flung them away to the floor. Harry heard them fall rather than saw them. His eyes went wide. Which…somehow angered Malfoy even more.

"Look. Or…don't." Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose. "Quit looking at me with those eyes. It's an unfair advantage, you know."

"What, you want me to borrow Moody's eye?" Harry snapped, confusion darkening his humor. "I was born with these, you know."

Malfoy suddenly slumped and the bizarre energy sparking from his skin faded away to just a fizzle in his half-lidded eyes. "I'm sorry. But it's hard for me, you know. To be so close."

"And yet so far?" Harry supplied hopefully.

"Yes," Malfoy said, sounding anguished. "You're stupid," he lashed out.

Harry laughed and before he could remember that he was actually fairly intelligent, he touched Draco's shoulder. "I'm rarely sure what you're talking about. But I like you very much, you know."

And that seemed to be the last straw. "I didn't know. You're killing me, Potter." Malfoy heaved a great sigh and looked at Harry through those half-lidded eyes. Harry knew, then, that he had no advantage. Those crescents of silver could do as much damage as Harry's supposed "emerald eyes."

But he couldn't admire them in silence for long, because Malfoy was smiling sardonically and reaching for his face like he was going to claw it off. He didn't. Instead, he touched Harry's shoulder, so that their arms were crossed over each other, warm through the cloth of their jumpers. "We've always known just how to get each other, haven't we, Potter?"

"I suppose. But that was before," he said hesitantly. "Can't we move on now?"

He shook his head. "It's not that easy, don't you see? We can't be this. Or more, or less. We're stuck."

"Yes we are." Harry disentangled their arms. Malfoy immediately ducked out from under them.

"Where are you going?"

"Not to hell," Malfoy informed him over his shoulder. And then he was pushing through the Slytherins and then the Ravenclaws and likely out of the stands.

There was a long pause, and all the remaining Slytherins and Harry could do was blink at each other.

"What…the hell…was that?" Harry rasped at last.

Blaise Zabini grinned. "Harry Potter, meet Draco Malfoy."

"He's quite the character," Greengrass chipped in.

"But he means well," Parkinson insisted, shooting a glare at her for even daring to demean a fellow Slytherin.

Or that's what Harry would have guessed, anyway. He didn't know too much about these people.

Greengrass and Zabini exchanged a glance. "When it comes to Potter, at least," Greengrass supplied lowly.

He didn't bother to overthink that. "He has a flair for big entrances. And big exits," Harry muttered mutinously. Then he shook his head, pinched the bridge of his nose, and headed after him like he was pulled by a magnet. "I'm so fucked."

"So fucked," Zabini agreed.

He could hear the others come trotting up behind him. They flanked him on both sides. Harry suddenly understood why Malfoy had let Crabbe and Goyle stick around for so long. It was a mad kind of power rush, being surrounded by those as deadly or more deadly than you.

Another Slytherin, the younger Greengrass, Harry thought, tapped a finger on her plump lower lip. She disregarded the smudge of ugly plum lipstick as she waggled the same finger at Harry. "Not necessarily. Stick around, though, and you might get fucked."

All the wit in the world, Harry thought, wouldn't help him come up with a response for that.

_Author's Note: Feedback is appreciated._


End file.
